“Definitely missing,” agreed the second man. “And it could be the most important one.”
Manfred Muntz had served the entire war as a colonel on Frieden’s staff and gone underground with him in 1945. A tall man, with distant eyes, he had a tubercular cough and was constantly bringing a handkerchief to his mouth.
“We’ve had the shoreline searched. And the surrounding forest. There’s nothing,” he added. A month earlier, the two men had examined the contents of the two boxes recovered after the assassination, cursing that they hadn’t even the luck of the Israeli survivor. Their boxes had contained nearly all counterfeit money.
“This could be the end of us all,” said the fat man. He looked up suddenly. “Have warnings been sent out?”
“Yes,” nodded Muntz, one of West Berlin’s most successful commercial lawyers. “To Egypt, Paraguay, Uruguay, the Argentine, Ireland. And here.”
“If we only knew who had the bloody thing,” said Frieden, “we could outbid the Jews easily.”
“Have we the money here?” asked the consumptive lawyer.
The man who loved children nodded towards the large wall-picture showing a Berchtesgaden mountain-scene, behind which was hidden a wall-safe.
“Four million pounds sterling in gold arrived from Zurich last night,” he confirmed.
At that moment, in a Jerusalem hospital, Lev Shapiro died from the injuries sustained in the dive in Lake Toplitz, coupled with the strain of appearing at the press conference.
And Perez and Mosbacher had their second serious argument.
(4)
The mornings were always bad. It had been natural at first, she supposed, that awakening moment of fear as she lay in the empty bed, tensed for the sound that would mean there was someone else in the apartment, a man in uniform with a warrant for her arrest. But she had expected it to dissipate gradually, like that momentary hesitation when she had to sign her signature and had always paused, very slightly, at the need to concentrate upon the new name of Gerda Pöhl instead of Gerda Köllman. Now she signed any form unthinkingly, because she was Gerda Pöhl. But the mornings never began without that cramp of apprehension. She even prepared her clock in its expectation, giving herself ten minutes longer in bed than was necessary, to recover. She lay, as was her custom now, while the fear drained, then got up. A woman of strict regime, she bathed immediately, then strained her heavily graying hair back into its accustomed bun at the back of her head. Patiently, she massaged her face for fifteen minutes, convinced such daily attention had kept it free of any lines or signs of strain. Finally, she washed her face again, in cold water this time, then dressed with care.
It was difficult to dress as she would have liked, thought Gerda. How different from the old days, the good times when her darling Heinrich had had such a standing with the Führer. Then it had needed three trunks to contain what she needed for just a weekend at Berchtesgaden. Several times the Führer had complimented her upon her appearance, which had made it even more important to be dazzling on the subsequent occasions they had been invited. And how dazzling she had been, always. All that had been necessary was for her to sign the purchase-bill at any of the couture houses in Berlin or Paris or Rome and the garments arrived always within a fortnight. And what dresses: the finest silks, material woven specially for her, even her own designs. They had all envied her, she knew. Frau Himmler, Frau Goebbels, Eva Braun. Such a mousy girl, Eva. She would never be able to understand what the Führer saw in her. It was said, of course … but no, that didn’t matter. No one questioned the Führer, not even now.
She chose the black suit, carefully picking at the nap on the elbows and the seat of the skirt, trying to remove the shine of wear. It would be at least another six months before she could afford a replacement, despite the good salary Herr Muntz paid her. The apartment was far too expensive, she told herself again. But she refused to abandon the good address. She had so little left. She couldn’t lose everything.
A good man, Herr Muntz, she decided, neatly making her bed. It had been a long time before she realized he was an ex-Nazi and that her wage represented not only the reward for her undoubted efficiency, but a pension that was rightly hers as the wife of such a leading member of the Party. They had never discussed it openly, of course, even though their relationship had become closer over such a long period. Once, many years ago, Gerda had even wondered if Herr Muntz wished to take her as a mistress. She had prepared herself for the approach and had decided to accept the role, after the initial, fitting hesitation. After all, there was no one else with whom she could have considered any sort of passing friendship, let alone something deeper. But she had been wrong, she reflected, with nostalgic regret. Herr Muntz’s interest had remained decorous, his behavior towards her indicating a shared secret but always stopping short of intimacy.
She sighed. Perhaps, through the Nazi survival network, the Organisation der Ehemaligan S.S. Angehörgen in which she was convinced Herr Muntz had high office, he knew dear Heinrich was still alive. Immediately she corrected the thought. Heinrich was definitely dead. It had taken her several years to face that reality. It had been different with Heini. When their son had been killed, the body was returned from the western front and there had been a proper funeral, with a grave in St. Thomas Kirchhof cemetery, which she visited, surreptitiously, every Saturday, disguising the attention by pretending to grieve at the adjoining burial-place. But with Heinrich there had been nothing. He’d just failed to return, and no one seemed to want to answer questions about him. For years she had cherished the hope that he would trace her, even though she had abandoned her real identity. But it wouldn’t happen now, she accepted. Heinrich had died, she was convinced of it. He had loved her, passionately. She knew that. Had he been alive, anywhere in the world, he would have contacted her.
She pushed the recollections away. It was ridiculous to regress so constantly. But where else did she have to live, she asked herself, except in the past? She made her coffee and drank standing in the window, looking down at the early-morning workers bustling along Duisburgerstrasse. Eight-thirty chimed, as she knew it would, as she emptied the cup. She washed it and left it to drain, carefully brushed her matching black coat, affixed her veiled hat into place and, carrying the briefcase containing the neatly completed conveyancing agreements she had brought home to type the previous evening, she stepped briskly out on to the busy street. From inside the cafe fifty yards away, near the Kurfürstendamm, Uri Perez saw her emerge. He had the appearance of a man at least thirty-five years older than he was, a bent, almost crushed figure, the ancient black homburg that had covered his white hair carefully on the seat beside him, the black overcoat, of a fashion long since dated, buttoned tightly across his chest. Just visible was a suit once blue but now graying with age and over-use, and the shoes, although of obvious good leather, were worn down and scuffed. In another six months, his appearance would be that of someone used to wealth who had finally arrived at the doorstep of complete poverty. Even now a few people in the cafe gazed at him sympathetically, as he huddled over coffee that had grown cold. Uri didn’t follow the woman. There were four men in the street who would alternate their surveillance as far as the office and three more who would relieve them during the day. The Mossad had known of Gerda Köllman’s existence for over fifteen years and had a file upon her so exhaustive it contained details that even she would have had difficulty recalling. They knew of Muntz, too, but not just how strong a figure he was in the Organisation der Ehemaligen S.S. Angehörgen. Both were viewed dismissively as bait, expendable except for the attraction they might have for people who really mattered.
Since the Austrian shootings and the Jerusalem conference Gerda Köllman had become important, but still only as bait, so now she would be watched, by a rotating team of a dozen men, to report the slightest deviation from the rigidly established routine, charted so minutely in her file.
Uri rose, paying his bill, never thinking of leaving a tip, so well had he been sch
ooled in his assumed role. Sadly, the waitress watched him shuffle out, feeling no rancor.
Herr Muntz was already in the office when Gerda arrived, which surprised her. Since his cough had grown so bad, he had delayed arriving until 10 a.m. and sometimes later. On several occasions in recent months she had urged him to seek proper advice, once, in her concern, almost blurting out that his new identity was sufficient to conceal any hospital case-history.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Muntz,” she greeted.
“Guten Morgen, Frau Pöhl,” he responded. Her identity documents showed her to be the widow of a sergeant killed during the siege of Leningrad. The man had, in fact, been her cousin, but in the confusion of immediate post-war Germany, it had been easy to blur the association. She even received a small pension.
“I have the documents I took home last night,” she said, efficiently.
The man began to thank her, but was overcome with a paroxysm of coughing. It took him several minutes to recover and Gerda hurried him into a chair and poured him water.
“You should seek treatment, Herr Muntz,” she said.
“Yes, Frau Pöhl,” he agreed, groping for breath. Always there was a barrier of formality between them, but now he stopped, looking up at her. Gerda shifted, embarrassed under the look. It was very direct and most unlike him.
“Frau Pöhl, a favor please.”
“Of course.”
“Lock the door, so we can’t be interrupted.”
“The door?”
Uncertainty flooded through the woman and she was reminded of her thoughts that morning that he might once have considered her as a mistress. But surely not now? Surely now he was too sick to …? She blushed, but moved to the door. As she returned, hesitantly, he was talking to the outside office, instructing them that no calls should be put through while he was in conference. He indicated a chair beside the desk and she sat demurely, knees tightly together, hands in her lap. Why hadn’t she worn the other suit? she thought angrily. The brown tweed was only two years old and far smarter than the black. He was clearly embarrassed, poor man.
“Frau Pöhl,” he started, awkwardly. “We have been together now for many years …”
She nodded and smiled, encouragingly.
“… Ours has been a fruitful … a happy relationship …” he groped on. “During the time I have known you, I have developed a very deep feeling … a very deep feeling of respect …”
There would be no sex, she decided, realistically. But that didn’t matter. She rarely felt the need, any more. It would be a union of companionship. They could have meals in discreet, quiet restaurants. And spend evenings at the theater or opera. She would need clothes, though. She would make that quite clear to him. She would not want to embarrass Herr Muntz with her shabby appearance. She would make him visit a physician, immediately, she decided: she might even make it a condition of their relationship.
The man was staring down at his unmarked blotter, seeking the words to continue.
“You are an intelligent woman, Frau Pöhl. You must have realized, many years ago, that despite your unquestionable efficiency, the salary I paid you and the increases I have allotted annually were more than could have been expected by most women in your position.”
Gerda began emerging from her reverie. The morning feeling of dread stirred deeply within her.
“You must know, Frau Pöhl, why I sought you out, all those years ago.”
He waited for her to say something, but the woman just stared at him, dumbly. How old she looks, thought Muntz. And quite ugly. No wonder she had had to cover herself with all those expensive clothes years ago. He hadn’t known her then, of course. But there had been many stories, jokes even. It was said the Führer called her the “painted clown” and enjoyed having her at Berchtesgaden because she amused him with so many changes of costume. Only Goering changed clothes more frequently, it was said.
“I know your real identity, Frau Pöhl,” he blurted, suddenly. “I was a dear friend of your husband.”
The office and the man blurred before her and Gerda strained to prevent the tears.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Muntz, hurriedly, seeing the emotion. “There is no danger. No harm can come to you. Believe me. You’re quite safe.”
“But why …?”
“It was time, Frau Pöhl. It was time for us to say openly what we have known for many years …”
An outburst of coughing broke the sentence.
“… I want us to be better friends.”
She stared at him, all thoughts of liaison buried now beneath the fears that fogged her mind, like a child’s toy turned upside down so that imitation snow obscured the picture.
She began to cry, very softly. Muntz came from behind his desk and put his hand on her shoulder. How bony she was, he thought, distastefully.
“Frau Pöhl, please don’t.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice muffled by her handkerchief. “I’m frightened, Herr Muntz. Very frightened.”
With difficulty, he took her shoulder again, keeping his touch soft this time.
“There is no need,” he reassured. “I’m your friend. You know that.”
She looked up at him, through reddened eyes. Her hair had come away from the band and straggled over her face. No wonder Köllman had had such a reputation among the women in the concentration camps, thought Muntz.
“Why, Herr Muntz? Why now?”
The man returned behind the desk, preparing himself. It wasn’t going to be easy, he knew.
“Things have happened,” he began badly, but confident she would not have heard about the Toplitz incident or the Jerusalem conference. He knew she had no television and rarely read newspapers. “Not important things, you understand …”
The cough came and he was glad. He was being very clumsy.
“… You know the witch-hunts that happen, from time to time …”
“… But it’s never involved me in the past …”
“I know,” said Muntz, quickly. “But now it does.”
The fear squeezed her, like a band being tightened around her body. She began to shake violently. Muntz gazed down at the desk, his hand shielding his eyes. Oh God, this was awful. He shouldn’t have had to do it. He was sick. Everybody knew that. Other people should have done it.
“Frau Pöhl,” he tried again, his tone sterner. “Please. Control yourself.”
Her feet drummed against the floor in her nervousness. The woman pressed her hands upon her knees, trying to subdue the noise. She was hunched, as if she were hollowed out and about to collapse inwardly, he thought.
“I’ve said I’m your friend. There’s no risk. You’ll always have protection from me.”
She nodded, half hearing.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, and he sighed, inaudibly.
“You are a neat woman, Frau Pöhl, a woman of strict habits who would notice anything unusual.”
She looked at him, curiously, recovering further.
“I want you to tell me if anything … anything at all happens that you find strange …”
“I don’t understand …”
“No matter how unimportant it may seem. If the baker from whom you buy your bread takes on a new assistant … if the postman suddenly changes to someone you don’t recognize …”
The band tightened around her again.
“Me?” she demanded, speaking with difficulty, because suddenly her throat seemed to close. “You mean they’re after me …?”
Again the handkerchief came to her eyes. Damn, thought Muntz, damn, damn, damn.
“No, Frau Pöhl,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I can assure you that there will be no official investigation of you …”
She wept on, unhearing.
“Frau Pöhl,” demanded her employer, sternly. She looked up.
“Frau Pöhl, it’s not you that people will be seeking. It’s your husband.”
The woman stared at him, uncompre
hendingly, her mouth half open. She wore dentures, he saw. Her face would collapse at night, making her even uglier. She was shaking her head, a stupid half-smile on her face, moaning unintelligibly at first, then forming the sound into a single word.
“No … no … no.”
She would soon become hysterical, he realized. He went around the desk and stood before her, glaring down. It was like the old days, he thought. They had been frightened of him then, always, cringing away, whimpering their terror. The uniform had helped, of course, but he’d had the stature that went with it. He reached out, seizing the bony shoulders and shook her, roughly. Her head wobbled, as if unconnected to her body. He couldn’t slap her, he thought. He might break her false teeth.
“Frau Pöhl, listen to me.”
She stared up, her eyes clouded.
“I believe your husband is alive,” he said, hurrying to get it over. “I believe he might try to contact you …”
“Not Heinrich,” she said, trying to hold on to her control like a child running its hand along railings. “If he were alive, he would have contacted me …”
“Exactly,” said Muntz, improvising wildly. “Because Henrich loved you. We all know that your marriage was a love affair for all to see …”
She smiled, recognizing the pathway to the past. Desperately, Muntz tried to keep her in the present.
“… Which is why he has made no effort to reach you. His love for you is too great for him to do anything that might put you in danger …”
“Then …?”
“… But now he may be in danger, Frau Pöhl. And faced with that danger, he may turn to the person he loves most of all for help. You.”
“He’s here? In Berlin?”
Idiotically, the woman stared around the room, as if she expected the sudden appearance of the husband she hadn’t seen for thirty years.
“I don’t know,” said Muntz. He was wet with perspiration and his chest burned, as if he had breathed in scalding air. “He could come here, very soon.”
It was possible to see the effort the woman made. She sniffed noisily, several times, and re-trapped the escaping hair. She scrubbed at her eyes with the damp handkerchief and straightened in her chair, gazing at him.
Man Who Wanted Tomorrow Page 3